As Black Horizons Blue
by squaresthesecond
Summary: Ginny's POV, Post HBPHe smiled sheepishly, and I knew that I had my Harry back, the way I knew him best. Stubborn as he was, he wasn’t supposed to act arrogant. He wasn’t supposed to ask me to marry him like it was a business proposition. He would have do
1. At The Burrow

Black Horizons Blue, Chapter One, At the Burrow

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, they're Jo's.

There was a simple reason as to why I had not spoken to Harry Potter in the three days he had been at the Burrow: he had not spoken to me. In respecting the decision he had made at Dumbledore's funeral, I kept my distance. I would not burden him with my presence unless I had to, and that was only during the evening meal.

He had appeared grim when he arrived, and in the glimpses I allowed myself to take of him, he visage had not wavered since his return to the wizarding world. I imagined his two week stay at the Dursely's must have been agonizingly slow. Hermione had told me he had spent the whole of it in his room, studying various texts that were pertinent to their impending journey. All I knew of this impending journey was that it was supposed to be continuing Dumbledore's work in bringing down You-Know-Who, of what deeds and texts it might entail, I was painfully ignorant.

Hermione, it seemed, acted those first few weeks after his return to the Burrow, as Harry's messenger to me. She offered information about him and their journey, vague though it was, much more often than I inquired after it. She told me that he had taken to keeping a journal of his research. It was enchanted, she was sure, by a most powerful string of charms; after all, he wouldn't want just anyone to be able to read it. She was nervous about it, she said, keeping any record of their journey was, in her opinion, unwise. She was not able to convince him otherwise.

She did not cease her narration until she had imparted to me all she could safely say. While she did not name the locations to which they planned to venture, or mention what it was they planned to do there, she gave me as many hints as she could: clues aimed to allow me solace in wonder.

I willed myself to be content in being Hermione's confidant instead of Harry's; however, respect does not beget contentment. The three days since Harry's arrival felt more like three years spent rising early to avoid him at breakfast and dodging round the other side of the broom shed to keep from his sights. I told myself it was for his benefit–that he was sacrificing himself–and had so much more to lose for it.

I wondered as I gave the vegetable garden a violent weeding, two weeks after his arrival, why I did not simply go to him and demand he not be noble. I longed to spend this summer as I had the last: laughing and flying and swimming. Seeking solitude and solemnity went against my very nature, and to even cause a slight smile in the corners of Harry's mouth would have relieved me of the acute burden pressing against my chest. It was all in vain hope, I knew because I felt that I could no longer be near him without assuming what I felt was my natural place at his side. To refrain from grasping his hand or kissing his lips, or even simply mussing his hair seemed more torturous than this devastating avoidance.

The only way out was to confront Harry and ask of him something he could not do, no matter how much he love me (for I did not doubt that he loved me still), because nobility was just as much a part of his nature as flying–and I would no sooner request he quit the former as the latter. He was, as I wrenched the weeds from the soil by their roots, playing Quidditch in the clearing with Ron, against Bill and Hermione. I had offered to aid in the preparing the yard for the wedding so my mother and Fleur sewed and chatted and ordered and spent a great deal of time arguing over flower arrangements. Occasionally, Fleur's mother would stop in to have her say, which only served to cause enough commotion to upset Mum to the point of consenting on whichever point the current argument was centered.

Being a member of the Order of the Phoenix, Mum's main concern was the safety of her family and guest, while celebrating the occasion adequately. Fleur and her family, not being privy to the inner workings of the Order, appeared to have forgotten (temporarily at least) the cause of the severe scarring over Bill's face in their eagerness to have the wedding as much to their indulgent tastes as possible.

As the wedding was just a few weeks away, my aid was enrolled much more often than it had been in the past. I begrudged anything to do with the event–not because my love had separated himself from me for the my own safety, but because I was still attempting to deny Bill was going to marry someone with as little sense as Fleur Delacour. I detested any woman that demanded such constant attention and possessed herself only according to her looks. I had expected Bill to choose someone who was clever, rather than someone with whom he might have beautiful children. The idea that my favourite brother had chosen appearance over a sharp mind stung me deeply. While I knew I was not unattractive, I did not flaunt my myself like she did. Men were not my purpose for living–and I would never marry to sit at home and have a brood of children.

It's not that I did not find something noble in the raising of children. It was the idea of doing only this that made me feel as though I were being smothered slowly with a down pillow. I knew I could not be content living as my mother had done; there were too many other things to do first.

In all my cursing of the women who surrounded me then, it had not escaped my attention that I was currently doing something I had said I would never do. I was standing by the wayside while Harry was to fight. He had, essentially, taken me out of the war–and I, by doing as he asked and stepping aside and letting him go, had agreed to be the good little woman who sat quietly at home to wait. It was as if I had said I would wait for him to come back to me victorious; we would then wed to the celebration of the wizarding world. He would then handle the affairs of his massive estate and juggle his fame while I sat in his manor nursery with our horde of offspring. Harry Potter would, of course, be expected to live in a manor and produce many little black-haired, green-eyed children. I choked on the thought as though I had inhaled a mouthful of dirt, and could not produce enough saliva to spit it out. I could not allow such a doom to befall me.

I reminded myself that in stepping back, not aside, for now, was not inviting that distasteful fate in, but merely aiding Harry's piece of mind in his quest to defeat You-Know-Who. For this reason alone, I had resigned myself to abiding.

---

Despite all the physical labour I endured that summer in preparation for the wedding, I ate little and rarely slept through a night. I had become thin from lack of food, and pale for need of rest. When the color in my cheeks faded so much that my mother became worried, she demanded I work less, and take a potion to help me sleep. After that, I took afternoons off, retreating to my bedroom to read if I could concentrate–or write in my journal if the words would travel to my pen from my head. So often that summer I found that they would detour from their path somewhere about my shoulder and I would sit on the floor, leaning against my bed with my journal open and my quill inked only to create a page of drips and blots. I never did take any of the potions my mother gave me in the evenings, preferring to throw them out the window and brood on my bed until morning came I could commence working once again.

The night before the wedding, I grew restless, as I often did, and rose to dress. I lit my lamp and snuck outside to the far side of the broom shed. I sat, opened my journal, inked my quill, and commenced dripping black ink onto an already blotted page.

What kept me from my bed that night had been the memory of Mad-Eye popping in and out of the kitchen all afternoon, checking on the extra precautions the Ministry had placed over the Burrow because of Harry, and placing a few of his own. He was convinced the wedding would not come off without incident. Such an occasion would be to Voldemort like a slap in the face–a celebration of love even amidst all his power-seeking mayhem. How could people still love when they should be obsessed with finding him–stopping him–defeating him if they could?

Bitterness crawled up my spine and settled in my clenching jaw and narrowed eyes. I could not help but feel as though Harry was falling for a ploy of Voldemort's by pushing me away. He loved Sirius, he loved Dumbledore, and both were gone. They were used against him. Their deaths fueled his anger at the injustice of it all and pushed him to irrationality. Should he not allow himself to love while he could?

Bitterness was quick and fleeting, as it was soon replaced by Fear. A twig snapped just on the other side of the shed. I could clearly hear footsteps coming for me. I realized then that I was alone, outside, with nothing to defend myself but a quill and a book. I snuffed the lamp and stood, holding my quill as if it were my wand. I had fought DeathEaters before–I could do it again. I bit my lip as a white trainer came round the corner of the shed.

The trainers stopped, and I did not move, my eyes slow to recognize a friend. "Ginny, is that a quill?" Harry asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yeah," I laughed, lowering my arm and sliding down the wall of the shed as my shaking legs gave out. My heart was pounding in my throat, and my head surged with too many thoughts to hold. I rubbed my eyes and heard Harry settle himself on the grass beside me.

"What are you doing out here?" he said. I looked up and he was offering me a mug of pumpkin juice. I was sure he must have just conjured it, because he had not been holding anything before.

"Realizing how stupid I am for coming out without my wand," I mumbled into my mug.

"Took you all summer then, did it," he chuckled. "Hey, don't look at me like that." He pointed to the attic window. "You know I don't sleep much. That lamp's like an open invitation isn't it?"

"So why come down tonight, then?" I said between sips. I wanted him to bow his head and blush–to mumble something incomprehensible that meant he hadn't had a reason other than wanting to be alone with me. Instead his eyes bored into mine, and I saw the same grim determination there I had seen all summer.

"We're leaving tomorrow, after the wedding." He spoke like an automaton, his words clipped and rehearsed. "I thought I should say goodby to you properly as everyone else will go mad Sunday morning when they wake up and find we've left." His passion must have been stirred, whether by the thought of the impending chaos of the prospect of his next adventure I do not know, but his words regained his normal voice here. "The three of us agreed it would be best if you told everyone once we're gone. We'd like to say goodbye, but we know they'll stop us if they can."

"But you still won't tell me where you're going, will you?" He shook his head and pushed his glasses up his nose. My mouth frowned against my will, but I asked if he could tell me something of what he had been reading at least.

"I've been studying the Dark Arts," he stated.

I gasped, but he was quick to cup my chin in his hands and glue his gaze to mine. "You have to understand that it is not to use them, Ginny. It is not to use them. I just have to know what it is I'm up against. I have to know how to protect us from whatever it is we might find out there."

I nodded, but he did not leg go, and even though I was still mortified, I did not look away. "It's good," he continued, "that you've stayed away all summer. I'm sorry it couldn't be like last year, and I know you're probably not very happy with me for that. I want to be with you, but it's hard when all I feel like doing when I see you is kissing you...I'll take your smile to mean that you don't hate me just yet. I'm glad."

He pulled me into a hug, and I was startled into tears. Though it had been scarcely more than a month since our last embrace, it felt as though it had been years longer. He was warm and firm, just as he had been then, though he smelled musty, like Ron's room.

"I still love you," he whispered, as if from a dream, and kissed me quickly before disappearing round the side of the shed.

---

I woke early to help with the last of the baking. From six to ten I frosted pink roses on hundreds of flat mints. Fleur insisted that it must be done the day of, otherwise the icing would grow hard and deesgustine.

Gabrielle had hovered over my shoulder the last hour, wanting to know when I would be done so she and Fleur could help me get ready. When I asked her why she didn't get ready while she waited, I was told with no little hesitation that she and her sister would dress me first as I would no doubt take much longer to make presentable than either of themselves. I rolled my eyes and deliberately slowed, saying my wrists ached too much to retain my former speed.

The second I had finished with them, Gabrielle grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me up the stairs to my bedroom, which had been transformed in my absence. My bedroom was now covered in mirrors and fairy lights. Make-up and various other female things were haphazardly strewn about. Fleur took up my other wrist and the two guided me to a pink vanity that was not my own and sat my on a lacy pouf. Both pulled out their dainty wands and set to work.

I had planned on wearing my hair down, maybe curled a bit round the edges, and perhaps a bit more make-up than usual. I generally only wore concealor, eye shadow, and mascara. I did not wear color, but I had considered going for a shimmering gold shadow I had helped Fleur pick out a few days before.

When the two stepped away to examine their work nearly an hour later, I saw that my plans were entirely superfluous. The top half of my hair was done up in a set of elaborately threaded knots and curls, that still managed to have enough excess hair to be secured in the back by a gold clip and decorated with a lily. The bottom half was down, and curlier than I had imagined doing myself, but manageable. The make-up was over-done, I thought, as the French girls fawned over how beautiful I looked in rouge and eye shadow. My face looked like one big blob of shimmer. As I dressed, I couldn't help but feel as thought I'd been abducted and coiffed against my will. I thought I might have preferred a duel.

The wedding began promptly at one. It and the reception passed peacefully—that is to say that no DeathEaters made their presence know if they had indeed decided to show.

Not long after the cake had been cut and the dancing begun, I finally was able to corner Tonks. Professor Lupin had not left her side the entire day—until my father had pulled him away, undoubtedly to talk business. I spotted her then, loafing about the snack table, picking at the food.

I snuck up behind her and startled her in saying, "I'm so glad you went with pink today, Tonks. At least one of us looks normal."

After she had calmed herself from jumping and overturning the entire tray of rose mints into the grass (at which I smiled; I had always felt that in Tonks, I had found a kindred spirit), she grinned and hugged me. "Merlin, what did those girls do to you? You look positively French!"

She released me and I pulled her to set of chairs off by a row of shrubbery. "They attacked me with their wands: it was terrible. I look nothing like myself."

She laughed with me and nodded toward Lupin and my father. "That old fart over there wanted me to go natural, just for today, he said. He thought pink might attract too much attention from the Bride. I told him sixty rampaging hippogriffs wouldn't distract anyone who cared from that bride…

She was silent for a moment, searching the crowd a moment before smiling to herself as her eyes found Lupin once again. I watched as Professor Lupin blushed at something my father said. "Oh no," Tonks paled. I asked the matter.

"Remus is blushing." For the second time that day I felt myself drug by the wrist into a situation I probably did not want to be in. When I heard Professor Lupin stumbling over a few words, including "marriage" and  
"practical," I knew I didn't. It did not help that even despite his best efforts, he looked absolutely terrified that we were joining the conversation just then.

"What he means to say, Arthur," Tonks interjected as she dropped my hand for Lupin's, "is that I'm not as self-important as all this—and I don't really think I could handle everyone fawning all about me like one is supposed to do to a bride. You know me, I'd probably trip over my dress and knock him into the cake or something awful like that.

My dad chuckled, but I wondered if he understood what I suspected the two were trying to avoid vocalizing: Tonks and Lupin were not planning to marry—at least not while Voldemort was still a threat. Even if they lived through it, I fancied they'd get on well enough unmarried. Simply being in love was enough for them, besides, they wouldn't have children. What was the point of marrying?

I imagined them in a hundred years, Lupin's hair and beard grown out to resemble Dumbledore's and Tonk's still as pink as ever. Both would be sitting in a chair by the fire, generations of Weasleys running about their house, stirring up plenty of trouble. Tonks would still hall him an old fart, and he would still be the only one who could get away with calling her by her first name. They would be happy, even without a pair of wedding bands.

Tonks awoke me from my musing by elbowing my ribs. "Someone hasn't taken his eyes off you all afternoon. Haven't you noticed?" she whispered, nodding to where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were huddled by the gift table. Harry turned his head rapidly back to his conversation as I looked up. I sighed and shrugged as Tonks raised her eyebrows in question. I told her I had no idea what was going on there anymore. She nodded and agreed that men were more trouble than they were worth before Lupin pulled her back into the conversation. I went in search of more punch.

I watched the Harp strings twang on their own accord as I drank the tasteless gold liquid, wondering if the odd notes it was emitting ever now and again was the result of a bad enchantment or the beginning of a prank from Fred and George. There was a tap on my shoulder.

"Would you like to dance?" Harry asked as he stepped into my line of vision.

"Sure," I said, setting my cup on the ground, allowing him to lead me by the hand to where other couples were swaying gently to the gentle plucking of the self-playing harp.

I saw Harry tap his wand minutely just before he brought his right hand to my waist. "Muffliato," he whispered as I looked at him quizzically. I nodded and allowed him to lead silently for a few moments, wondering what might require that particular spell.

"When Ron and Hermione asked me if I'd spoken you yet, I told them I hadn't," he began, but did not continue.

"But you have," I said. "So why lie?"

This time, he did bow his head and blush. He whispered in spite of his charm, "I don't think I wanted them to know I had been alone with you, since we broke up for your safety and all."

I frowned. "Do you feel guilty about last night, Harry?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm glad I had a chance to see you—but I think last night was just for the two of us. When people ask how you know, you should tell them this is when you found out, not then.

"I will," I said, not hiding the bit of a smiled that played about my lips.  
"I still—" He shook his head again and I stopped.

"Don't say it," he warned, "not now. Just know that I know.

I nodded and rested my head on his shoulder. We continued to dance in silence until Charlie cut in, for which I was glad. It was becoming painful to be so near to him when I knew I might never see him again once we parted.

---

A/N:

Congratulations, you made it to the end of my very convoluted first chapter! (Don't worry, the next few won't be so bad). If you have a moment, I'd love to hear what you think, so please leave me a review!


	2. An Accident and A Secret

As Black Horizons Blue, Chapter Two, An Accident and a Secret

Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.

A/N: I solemnly swear that I will only place one character (and only in this one instance) in a catatonic state for the sake of badly played irony. Thank you.

-------------

Platform 9 ¾ was not baron, as I had half expected it to be. There were not as many students as usual, but enough to calm the loneliness that had snuck upon me when I had received my Quidditch Captain badge. I had realized then how many people would not be returning to the site of the demise of the greatest wizard of the age.

The compartments did not fill as quickly, and family goodbyes were stretched up until the final whistle Mine was no exception. Mum, who had not stopped sniffing back tears in the presence of others since Ron, Harry, and Hermione left, sobbed on the platform, hugging me over and over again. Charlie, who was in the country indefinitely, pried her arms from my neck just in time for me to hop on the train.

I felt sorry for her. She was alone at the Burrow most of the time, with only barn cats and garden gnomes to keep her company. In my experience, neither were very companionable. I imagined she would divide her time between knitting and pounding mounds of bread dough, always keeping her eyes on that blasted clock of hers. Every one of the hands lingered on Mortal Danger unless someone happened to be traveling. Once at the chosen destination, the hand went right back to Mortal Danger. The two hands that moved with the most frequency were Ron's and Dad's. Each time one began to move, Mum would hold her breath and oversee the progress, hoping in vain that one destination might override the other, but even Home and Work were all over ridden by Mortal Danger.

I couldn't help but think if my mother had some other occupation, then she might not stress herself so with anxiety–anything to get her out of the house and away from that clock. When I broached the subject with her at the end of the summer, she intimated that beyond having no desire to leave the Burrow for safety's sake, she had quite enough to keep her busy at home–and anything added to that would only serve to vex her further. I told her, that according to her clock, she would be no less safe standing at Voldemort's wand point than she would be as was, isolated at Otter St. Catchpole. For this, I was immediately sent away.

I found Charlie by the pond. He had taken to spending as much time outdoors as possible. He said it was because the house felt as though someone within it were dying. It was stifling. When I told him Mum was practically killing herself with her constant worry, the bitterness in my voice gained me a hug and a promise to try and get her active after I left. As I sat with him at the water's edge, I was thankful. I thought Mum might pay his entreaties more heed because he was older and male. I was afraid she did not listen to what I had to say because I, being her only daughter, should share in her despair. That was something I could not do. As much as I did hope for my family's safety, I would not be immobilized by fear of possibility when there was still a chance that Harry might triumph.

"What do you think will spike Mum's interest more, Quidditch, dragons, or dueling?" Charlie had asked me.

"Perhaps you can get her a job at Fred and George's while you're at it," I laughed, wondering exactly how Charlie, the most active and athletic of my brothers would coerce our mollycoddling mother into living when their interests diverged so.

We did agree, before we left the pond, that if Mum did not find some occupation soon, she would not make it through the war, whether she had a run-in with some DeathEaters or not.

On the train, I found a compartment with Neville and Luna. We spent the train ride discussing Long-Snouted Rushkivs and Luna's trip to Russia. Neville was interested in hearing that I had been made Quidditch Captain, but more so about Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Both had the grace to nod and seem impressed rather than afraid and astounded at the task they had undertaken.

"It's about time someone did something practical," Luna had affirmed with force. Even though it was not particularly funny, it brought tears of mirth to my eyes. I wished everyone thought like she did.

The Feast passed without incident, aside from the introduction of two new teachers: Kingsley Shacklebolt had been made the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. On September 2nd, the Prophet ran an article on the placement of a fully-trained Auror as Defense teacher at Hogwarts, citing the mutual agreement between the new Headmistress and the Ministry that Defense was perhaps the most important subject for returning Hogwart's students. Shacklebolt, the paper said, had volunteered immediately upon hearing of the opportunity.

The new Transfiguration teacher was Professor Aberforth Dumbledore, the late Headmaster's younger brother. His introduction caused a wave of a murmur to cross the Great Hall. Neville leaned across the table and asked me if he wasn't the barman from the Hog's Head.

"I think he might be, Neville," I had said, wondering whether the Hog's Head was a Dumbledore family establishment.

Professor Shacklebolt turned out to be an exhilarating instructor, and quickly became a student favourite. Professor Dumbledore was a gruff and cold teacher, but not at all ignorant of his subject. Most students found his impatience disagreeable, and the void left by the former Professor Dumbledore could not be filled by his younger brother, as many had hoped.

Class sized were smaller, but not minuscule, and the Quidditch team proved easy enough to fill. Dean, Demelza, and a girl name Myra Benford were my Chasers. I held the same Beaters from last year over, and I found an able Keeper in a third year named Franklin Robins. I ended up playing seeker, as no one else was able to fill the position as well as I.

We narrowly won our first match against Slytherin, who had found a talented replacement for Malfoy (who had also not returned to Hogwarts this year), who gave me the best challenge I'd had since playing against Harry. After we scraped a victory out of the game (250 to 240, Snitch to Slytherin), I trained the team extra hard. They had played excellent in the first game of the year, it was I who had nearly cost us the match, but the exercise helped to keep my mind off Harry.

We played our second match against Hufflepuff just before Christmas in horrid conditions. It was snowy and windy. Everything was white and dull. The Quaffle and the Bludgers were nearly impossible to see, let alone the Snitch. After an hour of play the score was only 30-20 Gryffindor. The crowd was frozen and restless; many had already returned to the castle. The Snitch zoomed past my nose, and I shot out after it, determined to make up for my failure to catch it in the last match. I couldn't see if the Hufflepuff Seeker had notice me give chase, but I couldn't see anything. The wind was howling so loudly, I could hardly make that Demelza was screaming something at me. I dared not deviate from my trail. I nearly had it. It was hovering about the base of the Hufflepuff goal post: I reached for it.

--

I awoke in the Hospital Wing with a marvelous headache. My eyes weren't focusing well, and all I could make out was the candle on my bedside table. I groaned and registered the shuffle of hurried footsteps and a woman's voice saying, "She's awake."

Someone put a potion to my lips, and I drank. The pain lessened. I sat up, and my eyes focused. Ron and Hermione sat at my bedside. Hermione looked tired and careworn. Ron's left arm was in a sling, and his right hand appeared to have been burned severely some time ago, and was now scarred and slightly lame.

"You make a horrid Seeker, you know," he said. "Two games in a row, you've missed it now, Ginny. What are you doing to the Weasley family record?"

Hermione glared at him. "Ron, she had her skull cracked by a bludger, I'd like to see you win a game in that state."

"I think you've done more damage to that record than I have," I amended.

He shrugged and held up his right hand. "I can't even hold my wand, let alone grip a broom—just be thankful you can." He quieted, sat back in his chair, and stared dejectedly at his hand. Hermione grasped it between her own, and tried to smile at him, but he did not look up. They sat there for a moment, holding hands, looking very tired.

"What happened to you two?" I asked. They didn't answer. "Is Harry here?" I tried again.

Hermione nodded and motioned over her shoulder to the bed next to the office. It had the curtains pulled around it. "He's over there, asleep," she said. "He has been for two weeks."

"You've been here two weeks!" I choked on the sip of water I had just taken.

"Actually," Hermione corrected. "We've been here near on a month now. Two weeks ago, we thought we had found something in our research, and we went after it. We've been a bit worse for wear since then."

I thought she looked fine, despite a few scratches. Ron was trying to flex his right hand, but his fingers did little more than twitch. His index finger, it seemed, preferred not to move at all.

"Your hand?"

"No, I did this one in Wales in August—broke my arm last time."

"Ron!" Hermione scolded.

"What? We didn't find anything at Godric's Hollow—it was more of a sentimental trip." He winked at me. Hermione looked as if she would have liked to argue, but bit her lip instead. I thought he must have been lying, because I didn't see how he could have hurt himself so severely at a graveside.

"And Harry's been asleep since you broke your arm?" They nodded. "Is he going to be alright?"

"We don't know," Hermione answered quickly. "All the Healers that have been in to see him can't see why he hasn't woken yet. They guess there must be some bit of Dark magic in him they can't get at. They just keep telling us to wait it out." I nodded, but I still did not know what had happened to him.

"We think he'll be alright though," Ron said. "Hermione's been doing some research about what it is we ran into, and it'll take awhile for him to wake up, but once he works all that stuff out of his system with a little help from the right potions, he'll be good as new—except for the eye, of course."

"The eye?"

"We ran into some trouble on our way back, and Harry got hit in the face with a burning spell. It shattered his glasses," Hermione said. "And his left eye is gone."

"Poor bloke, he'll be devastated when he wakes up. Probably won't ever play Quidditch again."

I did not register Ron's nonchalant tone or Hermione's tired rebuff, as I was picturing Harry with a magical eye like Moody's. I shivered visibly. I didn't want him to be hindered by the loss of his eye, but I wondered if he couldn't replace it with a magical eye that wasn't not quite as astonishing.

Ron and Hermione were bickering about the importance of Quidditch when I interrupted them. "So, you'll think he'll recover then?"

"Oh, it's just a matter of time now, really," Ron did not sound a bit worried. Hermione told him he talked too much. "It's not gonna hurt her to know that you've been slipping him potions 'Mione!" She's got a right to know a little bit, you know!"

I switched my gaze rapidly back and forth between the two. I suppose I had misunderstood how far their distrust of those outside their trio stretched. Ron made it sound as though they had not even told the Healers what had happened to Harry beyond the burning spell. Curiosity flamed up within me, more brightly and more vigorously than before. To be left here, with nothing but Quidditch seemed transitory ad superfluous in relation to their quest. I wanted to know what feats they'd conquered, and what places they'd seen. However, Ron and Hermione left my bed for their own. Where they were staying I did not know, but it was outside the Hospital Wing.

I lay in bed awhile, until the potion had renewed me, and all pain was gone. I did not need anymore sleep, and the pull to see what was behind the curtains grew too strong for me to deny once I'd overcome all ill-effects from my fall. I slowly rose from bed, crossed the room, and slipped silently inside Harry's cubicle.

It was dark, so I lit a candle, and held it over him. He had gauze over his left eye, and I could see the shadow of burn scars splattering over the bridge of his nose. His lips were dry, but beyond that, he merely appeared to be sleeping.

I smoothed his fringe out of his face, and scratched his scalp just behind the hairline like I knew he liked me to do at the base of his neck.

He didn't move, but his breathing was regular. I traced the bandage over his eye, barely touching the skin. I leaned over and kissed his forehead just above the gauze as if it would help. It stung me to see him so helpless and weak. I needed him to be healthy—we all did. I wished then, that I could heal him. If he never woke, what would become of us? Would he atrophy in this bed, lost in a dream and falling into nothingness while the world crumbled around him?

He had to live to defeat Voldemort. Quitting now would only leave the rest of us to deteriorate into creatures of fear, waiting only for our turn to die. He knew better than anyone, that he was now our only hope.

Impassioned by the thought, and encouraged by his coma, I pressed my lips to his, as if to wake him from a faerie sleep. With this kiss, he would wake, and the world could hope again for happiness. The second I felt his lips part, I gasped, and shot upright. Reaching for the candle, I held the flame over his face to examine him once again. His eye was open, and he smiled. "I was wondering how long that was going to take you," he whispered.

"How long have you been awake?" I asked, stifling the urge to smother him. All despairing thoughts had departed, and I was overjoyed to see that he seemed to be recovering.

"Near two days," he croaked, then asked for water.

I nodded, and dashed out to retrieve the water that had been left on my bedside table, as there was none on Harry's. I poured him a glass, and waited patiently for him to drink it. After a few minutes, he set the empty glass down, and I refilled it in case he should want more. He cleared his throat and his voice returned. "What are you doing here?"

"I cracked my head at Quidditch this afternoon, I've only—"

He held up his hand to halt me. "I know all that. I heard you talking with Ron and Hermione earlier. I meant, why did you come in here?"

I thought this was a very silly question. Why wouldn't I want to come see him? My love for him had not waned in the last months, and neither had my memory of what he said at the wedding. I was torn between scolding him for worrying everyone, and humouring him with the answer he wanted. As he had been so ill, I decided on the latter.

"I wanted to see you," I said simply.

"And why did you kiss me?" he grinned dizzily, and attempted to sit up a bit more.

I saw quickly that he was in much worse shape than he wanted me to know, and indulging him now would only allow him to lead me into a conversation concerning our love for one another, and how warm and fuzzy it must be. I did not doubt that he had a perfectly valid reason to direct the conversation thus (not among which was the fact that he hadn't had a good snog in months), but I had more pressing topics on my mind, and I was not to be detoured.

"I think the better question her is why have you let everyone think you're nearly dead if you've been awake for two days," I said.

The dizzy grin fell, and he grew solemn. "I've been weak. I've had barely enough energy to call Dobby for food at night—let alone eat it. Just that has exhausted me, so I've been sleeping a lot. The rest of the time I've been listening. I found out about my eye last day by listening to Ron and Hermione. I heard them bring you in, and you talking with the others. I heard you get out of bed and walk over hear. I didn't mean to be deceptive, I just wanted to avoid a lot of attention right away. I wanted to find out how badly I was hurt. And with you, I just wanted to know what you thought of me now that I've been maimed beyond repair."

"Satisfied, are you?" I asked, not happy with the deception. He nodded. "All better then?"

"Let's see, shall we?" he threw off his covers and stood very fluidly for someone who had hardly moved in two weeks. He took two steps without hesitating, and then crumpled to the floor. I rushed forward and caught him, helping him back to bed.

"You're a real prat, you know that," I said as I took my chair again.

"You think I'm faking?"

"You are faking. You are feeling much worse than you're letting on. Just sit back and rest for now."

"But I can't afford to be held up much longer. I have to get better," he said, the charade falling away.

"Well, pretending you're healthy isn't going to make it so any more quickly."

"It's frustrating, not being able to walk. I can't see anything, and I hate that I let that happen to myself. I should have been able to stop it, but I was weak from what we did, and I saw Ron go down, and I got distracted. I was already half blind, now that I'm missing and eye, maybe next time I won't see it coming."

"It could have been worse," I said. "It could have been your hand, or leg, or something."

He nodded. "It still could get worse. They know we're out there now Ginny. They don't know exactly what it is we're doing, or how successful we've been (and we have been successful), but the DeathEaters know we're snooping about. If Voldemort weren't so sure of himself, he might suspect us. Right now though, I'm sure he has no idea, and that's the best I can hope for."

He had excited himself, and his tone, while grim, was also passionate. His face was no longer pallid and sickly as it had been, but flushed and glowing. It did not seem that the loss of his left eye would haunt him long.

"They'll not stop you before the end," I said, kissing his cheek. I felt that it was time for him to rest again, so I stood to leave. "Wake up for them tomorrow. You're worrying Hermione to death."

He nodded and pulled me down by my wrist to kiss me on the lips. "Are you staying for Christmas?"

I told him yes, and he smiled widely. "So are we."

I kissed him again, and left him to sleep.

--

I was the only Gryffindor left over break, so Ron and Hermione felt it was safe to join me in the common room in the evenings. We chatted, and played games, and laughed a lot, like before Dumbledore died. It was almost as if there was not a war for a few hours every night.

On Christmas Eve, I was playing Chess against Ron on the hearthrug, while Hermione read from an enormous tome in one of the dilapidated armchairs. The portrait hole opened just as I was taking Ron's king-side castle, and Harry crept in under his invisibility cloak, claiming to be fully recovered. "I'm through with Healers," he said, sitting down and wrapping an arm around my waist. "It was Hermione that saved me anyway." He nodded at her in gratitude and pushed his repaired glasses up his nose.

The gauze had been replaced by a black satin eye patch, courtesy of Hagrid. He'd made a trip to Diagon Alley exclusively for it, and gave it to Harry as a Christmas present. Other than a few slight depth perception troubles, he really did appear to be healthy. I smiled as I lost to Ron because Harry had been nuzzling my neck. It was something he only ever used to do in private.

Ron and Hermione said nothing, but left early none-the-less. As I was not one to object to pleasurable attentions from Harry, I didn't mind when he leaned over and kissed me fiercely.

I feel as though I should clarify what I mean by not objecting, so that what follows is clear. I did not argue with him, because from what I'd heard from Ron and Hermione, Harry had been sulky since the start of their journey. To see him in such high spirits was a treat for everyone. Furthermore, to feel his touch was something I'd been dreaming of having back for months. I loved him, and seeing him happy made me happy, but not enough to forget the situation outside the castle. It had not yet left my mind that Harry's time might be better spent trying to defeat Voldemort, however indirectly.

This conflict bubbled inside me as I was kissing him in front of the dwindling fire. I could feel the passion in his desperate kisses, and the need in the hand that had slipped inside jumper, caressing my back. My heart thundered a warning to my brain, and I pushed him back, reason overruling desire.

"What?" he blinked. "Do you not like kissing a one-eyed man?"

"If eyes had anything to do with kissing, I might have something to say about it," I said slowly, regaining equilibrium. "What I'm more concerned about is that you're kissing me at all."

The smile slipped from his face, and he sat up. The hand that had been running his fingers through my hair dropping to his side. "Do you not want me to kiss you then?" he said.

I wondered what had happened to Harry to make him so fragile in my presence. Why was he now going back on a resolution he had made so earnestly half a year ago. "What if this was your funeral?" he had said. What would he have done if it had been my funeral. And yet, here were, snogging madly, and very openly. He had been flirting with me and touching me all night. Simply put: I was confused.

"By all means, I would like you to kiss me. But—" I said as he started to lean forward, "first I want to know why."

"I love you," he said, as if that solved everything. He leaned in again, and again I pushed him away.

"What about Dumbledore's funeral? What about this summer, Harry? I thought there were more important thing going on that the two us snogging."

"There are—it's just that. . ." he mussed his hair as he thought how to word his answer. "You know, last spring was the best few weeks of my life. You make me so happy, but I know what I have to do. This has to be done without you. I won't allow him to take you too. It puts you at less risk if you're not known to be with me—anymore, at least. That doesn't mean you haven't stopped making me feel incredible."

"So you're taking back what you said at the funeral."

"No, not entirely. I just thought, that if no one really know, than it can't be harmful, can it?" His hand found my hair again, and twirled the ends absently as I thought about what he said.

He still wanted to have a relationship with me, so long as it was secret, because he didn't know if he'd be able to sacrifice me if it came down to it in the fight with Voldemort. I was his weakness. This though, while empowering to a degree, was terrifying. I understood fully what Harry was asking of me: to save the world, I would indeed pretend that I did not love Harry Potter; to save Harry, I would have to love him all of me.

With this thought guiding me, I kiss him with all the vigor he had shown me before. He encircles me in his arms, and pushes me back on the floor. I discard his glasses, and kiss his neck as I tug up on his jumper. He sits up and pulls it and his t-shirt over his head, and is quickly pressed against me once more. My jumper soon follows his to the pile of clothes on the rug, which grows quickly.

We made love that night, for the first time, quietly and anxiously. We were afraid of being fond out, because just then, it seemed as if the fate of the whole world rested upon our secret.


	3. Endless Warring Silent Stars

As Black Horizons Blue, Chapter Three, Endless Warring . . . Silent Stars

Harry and I spent the remainder of the break behaving when accompanied by Ron and Hermione, and doing the best we could not to when they were absent. In this, we put the Invisibility Cloak to good use and found a new use for the Room of Requirement.

I must tell you, reader, that as much as our passion was disposed to lust, it was also inclined to quarrel. As often as we made love, we were arguing about my position in this war. As much as I understood his want mor my safety, I could not help but think of my mother's clock, where my hand had hovered over "Mortal Peril" longer than a year. As noble as his protection was, I could only indict it as futile.

I begged him to at least tell me what he was after on his journeys, but he would not budge on the matter. Though infuriating, it was also enrapturing, as I found his resistance as endearing as it was maddening. He, I ascertained by the soft smiles and the dancing glint in his eye when I broached the subject, felt the same. I knew he would never tell me, but I could not have lived with myself if I had given up, just as I knew he had not wished me to quit my interrogations.

Before term resumed, I did sneak a look at his diary in the cover of night. I learned of the Horcruxes; however, owing to the need to digest such a tremendous undertaking, I set the book aside after only a few pages, and did not gain another chance to glimpse it.

After a few days, term began again, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione were lost to the mysteries of Hogwarts. I do not know how long they abided after Christmas, but I knew they planned to travel through the coming months, and perhaps return in the Spring.

My life continued on as usual. Classes were going well, we won our last Quidditch match, gaining the house cup again.

I kept up regular correspondence with Charlie and Mum, and after a night of frightful dreams at the beginning of May, a letter from Charlie barely dodged my coffee. In it, he detailed his latest attempt to occupy our mother. Everything he tried, from gardening to shopping, to starting her own shop were all rejected stubbornly. So, she continued to stay home and bake and hover about that blasted clock that never changed. With a sigh, I tucked the letter away and started on my breakfast of coffee and toast as frustrated with my mother as ever.

This time, she had actually lectured Charlie for an hour on meddling pointlessly where nothing needed to be changed. Though afterward, she'd gone to lie down. Evidently, she had often taken to stealing a nap when she thought it might go unnoticed and sleeping later, leaving Charlie and Dad to their own breakfast. She had become thin and pale, and the house was slowly becoming more cluttered and messy then usual. Dad was even beginning to worry.

I was angry with her for allowing herself to be destroyed. She was worrying so much about the rest of the family that she had become the one about whom we were most concerned. She was in more danger than the lot of us. Dad didn't know how to handle her falling apart, and did the best he could, but he was over worked, and as Charlie wrote, horribly exhausted.

I had lost my appetite and was gathering my school bag when a small, twittering owl landed on my plate. "Pig!" I smiled as I took the letter from his beak. I opened it to find only a blank parchment. Confusion crossed my brow before I smiled again and tapped it with my wand, whispering, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

A message appeared:

Ginny,

Meet me at midnight in the usual place. Don't worry, it's good news.

--Harry

I tapped the parchment and the text disappeared. My head had filled with a pleasant mist, very much like the heady fires Trelawney's tower, and all concerns about my mother were overshadowed by the pleasant prospect of seeing Harry.

At five-til midnight, I slipped out the portrait hole and padded down the corridor to the where the blank space of wall should have been. There was a door already there. I opened it, stepped onto the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch, and shut the door behind me.

Harry stood in the center of the pitch, the invisibility cloak draped over his arm. "What do you think?" he asked as I neared him.

"Brilliant!" I laughed and jumped into his arms. We kissed quickly and stood embracing each other for several subsequent minutes. He smelled my hair often, and his stance was tense, despite the relaxing atmosphere.

"I have something to tell you," I whispered.

"In a minute," he breathed, breaking away to spread the cloak on the turf.

The first year Harry and I were intimate, it happened often that when he intimated his need, my brain would cease to function properly, and I would be lost to lust. This case was no different: I joined him on the makeshift bed where passion took control of all fear and anxiety and molded it into bittersweet love making.

Afterward, he wrapped the two of us in the cloak, and we lay watching the silent stars on the false sky. Neither of us moved or spoke for what was most probably an hour. I did not think. I noted the feel of his chest rising and falling against my back. One of his hands played with my hair as he liked to do. The other rested on my abdomen. I absently reached behind me and scratched his neck, just inside his hair line, which caused him to sigh, and incline his head into my touch. Some of the tension evaporated like water bubbling steam out of a kettle.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" he said sleepily.

I turned to face him. "I had a dream that you defeated Voldemort."

"Well, that's a good dream, right?" He asked.

I shook my head. "He took me, and you used so much energy saving me that you went into a coma once Voldemort was gone. When they found us, we were both unconscious. They took us to St. Mungo's. When I woke, you weren't there, so I searched for where they put you." I sat up. "Harry, when I reached the ward where you had been taken, there was a portrait of you."

He sat too, alerted to what it meant to have a portrait of him hanging in the wizarding hospital. "Beneath the portrait was a plaque that read 'The Harry J. Potter Memorial Ward, The Boy Who Vanquished the Dark Lord: 31 July, 1980–14 July 1998.' When I asked a passing Healer the date, she said it was 15 July. I had missed you by a day. Just then, your portrait woke, and you looked so happy to see me. You said that you wished you could kiss me–and that's it, I woke after that."  
Harry wiped at my cheek as if to wipe away a tear, even though I was not crying. He held me close, lying back on the cloak. He kissed my face, my neck, and my shoulders. I knew he did not know what to say in response. We both knew my dream was an entirely plausible outcome of Harry's stand off with the Dark Lord. I knew what he wanted to say though. He wanted to cry out that it would be impossible. Voldemort did not know about us—he couldn't. he had been too careful.

He grew tense again. It was pouring off him, and pooling in my muscles. I massaged his back in attempt to calm myself. Finally, he sat and retrieved his robes, pulling them over his lap. He gazed up at me from beneath his fringe. I smoothed it out of his face as I covered my chest with the cloak.

"I…" he began, "I have been preparing myself for all possible outcomes. I have already made out my will–Don't give me that look Ginny. You know I have to consider it. I've left everything to your family. You all deserve it more than I do anyway."

"And if you survive?" I asked. "What then?"

"I've got to have something to live for, so I have made other, happier arrangements."

I watched him closely, I could not imagine what other arrangement he might have made. He already had friends, and a family. We all had confidence that he would be victorious, even the wavering reality of admitting that he might not make it came upon us, we did not waver in our belief that Harry would bring Voldemort to his end.

I know I must have appeared confused, because his gaze, which had been set in determination only a moment before, softened, and he reached out to give my hand a squeeze. " I've been looking into some possibilities, seeing how well things might work out sooner rather than later. I haven't told Ron and Hermione, but they know I've been preoccupied with something, but I haven't told anyone."

"So, what is it already?" I asked, annoyed at his rambling.

He chuckled arrogantly, and I gritted my teeth. If it was all so funny, why could he not just get on with it?

"They don't even know where I went last weekend when I disappeared. I went to Gringott's and some shops in London. I made a few other secret stops. They won't quit asking me about it."

"What did you do, then?"

To my dismay, he began fiddling with his robes again. As he idly straightened them, I wanted to wrench them from him and force him to tell me what it is he was so desperately trying to put off.

"I've been thinking a lot about what would be good enough," he said, at last. "What one thing would be good enough to bring me back from the brink of death? If I were despairing, what would give me hope? It reminded me of patronuses, and all the thing I've thought to produce one: my parents, Ron and Hermione, Sirius, and you. Lately, I always think of you. I think about how fiery and independent you are, and how passionate you can be when we make love."

I looked to the ground, where my leg would have been had the cloak not been hiding it. His honesty, I thought, deserved the sort of reverence that came with prayer, and I dared not look at his face. I allowed my eyes to watch his hands, and mind to ponder what he was saying. He reached into the pocket at the chest of his robes, and grasped something small enough to hide in his fist. I realized, finally, what he was doing: I was terrified.

I met his gaze again, and he said, "I was thinking, if you and I both survive this war, then maybe we could get married." He held out a gold band, bearing a single diamond at the crest. "What do you say?"

Most girls would have been overjoyed to have Harry Potter propose to them naked in the starlight. I, on the other hand felt my eyes widen in terror, and the fear that had plagued me before Christmas came rushing back with anger as her fellow.

"I say that I do not like you planning my bloody future for me, and I'll be damned if I let you get away with it."

He did not back down, he never did. "I thought you would like it to be a surprise. Don't most girls like their proposal to be a surprise?"

"Most do, but lucky for you, I'm not one of those girls who's whole existence centers around her wedding day," I spat, attempting to force the image of me surrounded by seven black-haired babies out of my head. "I would like to know if my boyfriend is thinking it might be nice to own me, thank you."

"Own you? Ginny what are on about?"

He reached for me, but I had already stood and begun to dress. "I am saying that if you wanted someone to cook your food, wash your dishes, clean your house, and warm your bed, then you should have told me when the idea first occurred to you. I would have directed you to a suitable house elf and saved us both a lot of wasted time and emotion."

Harry scowled at me, and placed the ring on his small finger for safe keeping. He stood squarely in front of me, naked in all his skinny glory. "Ginny, what do you think marriage is?"

The wavering quality of my anger, proved itself, and it began to abate, I hung my head. "I don't want to end up like my mother. Did you know she's ill, Harry? She's killing herself slowly because she doesn't think he has anything else to do. I don't want that. I want to have a career and maybe kids someday. But when I do, I don't want to be stuck at home, taking care of the house and worrying myself to death. I want to have the choice to be something else. Because, every time I look at my mother, I just see a woman trapped in her house, slave and master to all of us." It was all true, I was afraid of becoming nothing more than a housewife. I saw the trap I had seen looming last summer open and prepare itself to snap shut over me. I had no control to stop it. "I want to be my own person, known for my own right, not just because you were gracious enough to take in the poor pureblood witch that looks like your mother."

"Is that what you think of me?" He asked with a tremor of anger or despair in his voice; I could not tell which.

"No, Harry, I don't. I know you would never force me into a situation like my mother's." All my indignance had washed itself away, as I watched him gather himself. I could tell that I had almost destroyed him with what I said, just as he had nearly broken me. As his eye finally met mine, I could see relief overpower the pain hiding within the emerald green.

I let his arms envelope me, and I kissed his neck in apology. "Is that what you really think of your mother?

"It's what I know of her. . ."

"But don't you think she chose to be a housewife of her own accord?"

I snorted. "I suppose she did, but that's not what I want."

"Well, then I guess it's a good thing I'm not asking that of you, isn't it?" He kissed my forehead, and I pulled back to gauge his response to my next question.

"Then what are you asking of me?"

He smiled sheepishly, and I knew that I had my Harry back, the way I knew him best. Stubborn as he was, he wasn't supposed to act arrogant. He wasn't supposed to ask me to marry him like it was a business proposition. He would have done much better if he would have just asked me, laying back on the cloak. If he could have been looking up at the stars, saying "If we make it through this, will you marry me, Ginny?" We would have been well on by now if he had. As I was contemplating this, I was startled by his next question: "Why did you have sex with me for the first time?"

"What has that got to do with anything?" I spluttered.

"Humour me," he chuckled, and I did.

"I figured you had enough stress to be getting on with, and I didn't think adding to it with sexual frustration was bright. You deserved some sort of relief, and as I was able to aid you. As that's about all I'm able to do for you just now, I was glad to do it."

I grinned at the memory of our clumsy, anxious first joining, as Harry's eye began to glow. I wrapped my arms around his waist and kissed the tip of his nose as he asked, "And why, exactly, did you feel it was right to perform this service for me?"

"To show you that I love you—that I believe you can beat him—that I'll always love you."

He kissed me on the mouth. "That's all I want from you, Gin. I just want you to love me."

"Is it really that simple?" I asked, unsure.

He nodded. "You know I would never ask you something you did not want to do. If you're ever unhappy, just tell me. We'll fix it, OK?"

I nodded, and buried my head in his chest. "Why do you want to marry me?" I asked, my voice muffled by his body.

"I told you, I love you, and nothing I could think of would make me as happy as the prospect of having you with me for the rest of my life. I want to celebrate that after this mess is finished. Once he is destroyed, we all need to celebrate the good there is in this world. We need to make a fresh start. I can't think of a better way, can you?"

I fingered the ring which rested upon his smallest finger. "You don't expect me to stay home and raise a horde of children?"

"Not unless you decide you want to."

"I want to be a curse breaker, like Bill."

"I think I can live with that," he said, and started kissing me slowly. He flung my robes aside, and we made love a second time that night. Even though neither of us vocalized it, we both knew that this would likely be the last time we'd have together before Harry was to face Voldemort.

Dawn was approaching, but the stars on the false pitch had not moved or faded. We dressed, and made to head back to our rooms. Before Harry could drape his cloak about us, I clutched his right hand, the one with the ring on it, and said, "I believe you have something of mine."

He smiled, and slid the jewel onto my left ring finger, where it became invisible. "Just until this is over," he said, kissing me as the cloak fell over my shoulders.

You mustn't suspect, reader, that I was at peace with my lot now that I was engaged. On the contrary, I longed to be out with Harry even more. I yearned to try my hand at protecting him, if I could. This, coupled with a letter I had received from Ron just two weeks before Harry's return caused my want to sore to near painful heights.

Ron's letter detailed a particularly nasty situation, resulting from some obscure bit of their mission. The exact events were vague, per Harry's orders. I had not wizened any of them to my knowledge of the Horcruxes, but I was able to ascertain that they were attempting to destroy one of them when Hermione overlooked a nasty shield charm. She had muttered some charm and was thrown back into a wall by the magic protecting the artifact. Ron wrote that she'd been unconscious for a few hours from the attack, and awoke complaining of an aching abdomen, though this was to be expected as the full force of the curse hit her in the stomach. Other than that, she seemed to suffer no ill-effects.

The good news though, and the true point of the letter, was for Ron to showcase his recent accomplishment of becoming ambidextrous at last. He had learned how to manage his wand with his left hand just as well as he had ever been able to do with his right; and even more impressively, his handwriting was entirely legible.

Though I was relieved to learn that my brother was once again able to protect himself properly, I was not deterred from wondering with what spell it was that Hermione had been hit. Out of concern for her welfare, I delved into the library's restricted section, researching every spell I could find that fit the description in Ron's letter. I found a host of horrid effects from aggressive shield charms. There were some which manifested themselves differently according to the gender of the person attacked. For women, some might result in any array of ailments from slow paralysis to barrenness. Many had delayed effects, which could manifest anywhere from a few months to fifteen years (in the longest known case); many such known victims lost sight, hearing, and control over less pleasant bodily functions.

I owled Hermione with my findings, simply to warn her of the possibilities. She sent back a curt reply to inform me she knew all probably outcomes, and that I would do better not to stick my nose into matters that were not my own. I had sighed loudly to myself wondered if one's temperament could be altered by such dark charms, but I could not find any documented cases.

Though I never heard another thing from Hermione about how she was faring, I never forgot about the incident. Ron, it seems, did not either. We agreed to keep an eye out for any sign of illness, so it was not surprising then, three years later when she suffered an "unexpected" breakdown. In 1998, however, it was just another concern I shunted to the recesses of my mind until such a time as need retrieved it.


End file.
